about time

more love, please.

Learning that heartbreak is much like recovering from addiction has given me rays of hope. As with the mis-wired centers of reward and pleasure-seeking which led me to my relationship with Rocky the Salty Shard, understanding something of the process – that I need more love, attention, hugs, and support; rather than pain, what-ifs, obsessive routines, and self-flagellation has helped me start towards feeling whole again. I’ve lost something incredibly precious, and I’m still nursing hopes it will come back to me like a forgotten Tori Amos song, a portmanteau of yesterday and tomorrow, something new which describes both. But I’m not standing still waiting for that. He said our love was a fantasy and that he no longer had love for me, there simply isn’t anywhere to go now with that. In all likelihood there never will be, but we met in the first place didn’t we? Stranger things have happened. Should the accretion of cause and effect triggers in the progression of the time-based universal interaction eventually push us back together, then, maybe we can move forward from there. If not, I will always hold a piece of myself for him, an unwritten poem in the shadows of my left ventricle, crouching, ready to pounce, completely hidden by its surroundings.
My fears that no one else will look at me with that storybook twinkle, that if someone does I will be unable, unwilling, or incapable of responding in kind have not been assuaged. Unlike my meth-tastrophe, this monkey is not going to go away. Not because it can’t, but because I’m not going to let it. See above metaphor about a the crouching thing in my heart. My own private, bloody Idaho. An Easter egg I’ll have to look very hard to find. A secret everyone knows.
In the meantime, more love. Please.

about time


These things all mean so much
it is all about the climb
a search for words
within the hash of tags
and I go away to Westeros,
to the Neck,
my adjectives:
dorky, chunky, aggressive, and needy
of such things a knight is made
a man of jealous rage given a weapon
of photography
against my words
he asks him to climb
not me.
These lances are resolutions
to be splintered by force
pushing against the door
marked pull
“I am not a smart man”
but I know he doesn’t know
it is all about the climb
he will reach out
hold the ones and zeroes
in his hands
they will comfort… so
is your place in heaven
worth giving up
my kisses
such a clever exchange rate
love for hashtags.

about time

the fever broke.

something in me broke yesterday. i shifted through the last stage of grief during a run perhaps, I am not quite sure. What I realized is the truth behind what everyone (even him) told me: I’m incredible. I’m worth more than being broken because he is. It doesn’t change how I feel, I still love him. But I’ve let him go. Remarkably fast, if I say so myself. He didn’t put me first, and he should have. I hope he learns how to do that in the future. Being destructively beautiful doesn’t last, and cats only warm you so much. Surely in the months to come I’ll find another flip, where I decide he really was doing the best thing for me, because wonderful things will happen and being a sentient ape I will search for patterns in that noise. “Wow, he must have known X, Y, & Z were coming and realized that he was standing in the way! He’s so considerate.” *not impressed either, McKayla*
The world is opening up (it would have anyway, which is, of course the rub) and moments are flying towards me at a speed I will have to work to maintain. I’ve gotten very used, over the past 9 years, to a privation of choice. Limits, Frank. You may have A or B, nothing else. How I will manage the depth of what I need to face is an open question. But I’m not afraid. It’s one of the reasons I can’t understand why he did what he did. It seems a reflexive action done out of fear and I’m prison-tested against letting fear push me down.
Good luck, monito.
It’s something I don’t need. I’ll make my own.
Let’s do this. 😛

about time

head above water.

*blink* smile *blink*
finally slept well (thanks benadryl). woke up smiling. trying to game the length of time i’m supposed to allow myself to mourn, to honor what I’m being forced to walk away from, is such a thorny question. time to deal with other things.
to go to grad school or not? what to study if I do? surely I should have an answer by now. but after majoring (in order) in History, Creative Writing, TV & Movie Writing, and finally getting my degree in Information Technology:Cybersecurity – well. I don’t have a fucking clue. I think I might like to work for social change somewhere, but I have no idea how to do this.
move to NYC? chase that old dream? but will I end up working a job a hate so I can have the right to wander streets that made me feel alive at 22?
or be near formative people?
stay in Louisiana? keep working at a job I’ve mastered which gives me the leeway to travel the world a couple times a year? buy a little house, keep a cat and garden?
i. don’t. fucking. know.
but my head is above water today and I’m smiling.

about time

emptiness deferred.

another sleepless night. more gnashing of teeth and tossing in the bed. more protestations to an uncaring Internet. the ebb and flow of clarity, I suppose. all my talk of not believing in regret, seems rather like boasting now. at 130am. Alone.
i keep trying to stoke this anger inside me, to develop this cinder of hate. let it burn until i’m numb and have moved on. #anotherfailure
i don’t hate him. i just miss him.
Monday waits on no one, perhaps this time I’ll dream.

about time

lust. in the marriage bed.

seventeen plus years ago I moved to NYC. with a North American nothing: $200, 3 weeks of clothes, and 1 friend. I slept on benches, squatted with strangers, sold my body, did drugs, went dancing, and met some people who are still with me today. I did eventually make NYC work, if in a roundabout, discombobulated sort of manner. I worked. A lot. I got paid. A lot. And I built a second life for myself. A secret me, steeped in the pleasant muck of the burgeoning Internet and hiding from the light on the horizon.
I loved NYC. Still do. But anyone who knows me well understands how I love. It doesn’t really die.
When I moved there I had a portable CD player, and two CDs. One of which was To Venus and Back. I played the song “Lust” over and over again, letting the staccato of the drums over Tori’s soft soprano merge with the sensations of movement around me. Two things which on the surface, the song and the place, had no relation. Yet somehow, I found something in them. A resonance. NYC became that some for me. It was my own ghost-lie, my own whispered reality. And I waited.
Seventeen years and a lot has changed. But not that.
NYC, I am coming back to you.
Soul-trading, as it were.
From one love to another.

We’ll see how brave you are. 🙂

about time

hiding in plain sight

as my relationship unravels before my eyes, and I contemplate what it means to be told my love no longer loves me, that he is empty, I feel the need to regress to my old habit of blogging on here. where no one will ever see it.
so here’s the short story:
we met in line at a Tori Amos concert, the dream meeting for two diehard fans. It was instant crush. He knew it before I did, because I never suspected someone so beautiful could look at me that way. The deeper I went, the softer, more gentle, and amazing I found him. The hitch? He lives 5000 miles away, and I had only been out of prison for 7 months. It would be years at the earliest before we could really make a life together, if that’s what was meant to be. Prison had inured me to waiting for things I want, to internalizing my pain and doubt and fears, to compartmentalize it away. Focus on the now, Franklet. Do today. One foot in front of the other. It worked for me, but not for him. The idea that in a break-up someone always leaves with everything seems horribly true at this moment.
I had never loved someone who loved me back at the same time. I had never planned my future with someone and liked what I saw. I had never looked in someone’s eyes and saw my own beauty reflected back at me. I believed.
Right now I’m full of what-ifs:
what-if instead of blocking my early release from probation my PO had done the right thing and recommended it?
what-if instead of convincing himself he could not wait, he had convinced himself love was worth trying and moved here?
what-if instead of telling me he didn’t love me, he told me he needed a break from the pain?
what-if instead of breaking my heart he had found a way to enlarge his own?
So what now?
Pick up and move on? Or fight for him? Plan to travel to where he is and put it all on the line? I am that guy, but for now, I just have to be broken. And wait.
But I just want to be clear, here, if nowhere else: there is nothing brave about letting go of love.

about time

six word story: prison sex

“stand between the toilet and wall”

about time

six word stories

In an effort to be my ineffable and lovely self, I’d decided to catalog my emotions in the craft of Hemingway-ish daily six word stories.
on love:
Spanish for Dummies. You will learn!”

about time Hate


so I finally watched the movie “Room” this weekend. I loved it, but then again I loved the book. At times I was bothered by the prescience Jack as the narrator, but mostly I thought Emma Donoghue did an amazing job with a concept which could have been horrible and uncomfortable without any saving grace. I struggle so much with this as a writer, because what I write doesn’t generally vibe with enough people for it to catch fire. I love doing it, when the flow is in, and when a new idea smacks me in the face. But even then my best ideas almost inevitably feel derivative. As such I continue to embrace the logic of this: all literature is derivative. To ignore the evolution of intellect through literature and knowledge as they wove into and about each other is to be willfully blind. These things give me hope. That the sincere narcissism I express in thinking people who don’t already adore me would care to invest time in what I’m typing isn’t some novelistic form of extended mirror-gazing masturbation. And with that said… I present to you the first chapters of “Hate” – which is my latest response novel. Because that is what I think I am going to keep doing. Writing novels in response to other novels. To carry forward the story.

Chapter 1 – Gone Days

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like, if I were different. Not him. I understand that I’m not him. I get it. I’m not five anymore. But it’s not like it’s easy. Doing stuff. Understanding how I’m supposed to handle things. Figuring it all out. Mostly it’s his fault. I get it. But she fucked it up, too. I don’t get to be mad at her, though. When I try, it’s like I’m back there. Stuck in that small place, with the crack running between the doors and the sliver of light shining down my body, splitting me in two.
I don’t even have the same name. Not anymore. It wasn’t safe to be him, they said. So they made me into somebody else. I don’t think she would have liked that much, if she’d bothered to stay around. Gran is always telling me not to blame her, that she did the best she could. She gave you life, Lucky. That’s not the kind of thing you hate someone for.
It’s what I should have picked as my name. Because it’s what I am. Not literally. I’m not some manifestation of what comes from anger, though I am always angry. Except when I’m medicated, but even that is dicey. Try, Luck, buddy. You want to get better, right? Seriously, Leo? Fuck you. Why don’t you go make some fucking pancakes or do some yoga, or whatever the fuck it is you do these days. I don’t like it when people from Before say my name. Except Gran. There’s always Gran, and that’s about as good as it gets.
“Lucky’s” a great name she said it fits. It’s just different enough that you can write the story of it and leave the bad stuff behind. People will want to know who Lucky is, and that will encourage you not to be J…
I screamed at Gran that day. It was the first time I’d ever shown her who I truly am. The person inside. The real me. Not him. Not her. Not Lucky. Hate.
Don’t ever fucking call me that name! NEVER!
I feel bad, even now, for shouting at her. None of this was her fault, even though Ma sometimes said it was. Ma said all kinds of stuff that wasn’t true, but she also said a lot of stuff that was.
I was happy before this, Jack.
I used to run so fast!
Once upon a time my teeth were white, Jack!
I never really believed it when she said those things. Not at first. How could I? I was fucking five. I didn’t know any better. I’d never seen anything but the inside of that damned room and that wardrobe where I slept and the awful piece of sky that should have made me feel free but never did. I hated it. Even before I learned to hate her. Because it was outside and I wasn’t. Because she was outside and I wasn’t. Because she left me. Even back then she used to leave. What did I used to call those days? Gone days. What the fuck was she thinking? As if I wasn’t damaged enough? As if she wasn’t damaged enough. Gone days. Hate. Lucky me.

Chapter 2 – Room

I never should have made her go back. It’s not like I actually remembered the place. The only stuff I knew about it was what she told me. And Gran. And the movie. The book. The magazines. All that fucking shit that only exists because she told them about it. We could have left it all behind. Moved on. I would have forgotten, the world would have forgotten. If there’s one fucking thing I’ve learned is that the world always fucking forgets.
She didn’t want to go back. Neither time. Gran told me she didn’t want to tell the story either, but that she felt like she had to do it. To let it out. As if her body was like Room, and she was like you, Jack. She had to get it out. I believed that when Gran said it. It made sense. It didn’t make up for her leaving me, but it made sense. When things make sense I’ve learned you have to hold on tighter, for the times when they don’t make sense at all.
I made her go back. Twice. The first time I barely remember. I wasn’t even six yet. I remember how small Room was it. It was like it wasn’t even Room anymore. But something from the TV. Some fantasy. That’s how I felt. I remember that. This isn’t Room. I told her. She laugh-cried. I was such an asshole. Even then. I guess I wasn’t just hers. Just like him, I made her go back to Room. I kept her there, when all she wanted to do was leave. Just like him.
The second time I made her go back I was almost sixteen. It was like a sick little fascination. Gran didn’t want to go, and I’d snuck over there already a bunch of times myself. But it didn’t feel right. I needed Ma to go with me. I needed the closure she should have given me from the start. Like that awful bitch who interviewed Ma tried to make it out. As if Ma should have left him take me, bring me somewhere, abandon me. As if that was the right thing to do. To leave Ma in there, alone. To die. And me to never know who I am, where I came from, or why I could never know the truth. Yeah, lady, that’s the right fucking thing to do. What the fuck is wrong with people?
I should have seen it. The second time. The way Ma started shaking two blocks before we got to the house. She knew the place. I had always believed she never went there, but now I know better. She drove past the place a lot. Trying to make herself go in, back to Room. To break the spell the place had on her. To shatter the last bits of him holding on to her. Needless to say that shit never worked. Still, I should have seen it. I’ve always been good at seeing things about her. Not that time.
I practically had to drag her through the house. I remember thinking: he fucking lived liked this? While we were in Room this asshole lived like this? The least he could have done was be interesting. The house was fucking boring. A ratted old sofa. A tube television. Some exercise equipment and lots of old newspapers. A dining room table with one mismatched chair. Peeling wallpaper and fucked up, moldy carpet. It shouldn’t have shocked me that no one wanted to live in the place. There was gruesome feeling to the whole house and it had infected the houses around it. The whole neighborhood was a dump. I can only imagine what his little backyard addition did to the property values of his neighbors. Whatever. Assholes.
The backyard had overgrown, the weeds and grass and shit was up to my knees. But the shed was still there. All the greenish paint had faded, it had this worn, sort of tired color to it. As though it waiting to fall down. Waiting for the right moment. It’s sick, but I wish I had taken a picture of it. Something to remember the place by, other than my sick fucking memories and the damn magazines Anyway.
The building didn’t look like the photos. Maybe they had some kind of camera tricks to make it look… close? Fuckers. It was bigger than I thought it would be. Ironic, right? Still small as fuck, but the last time I came here Ma says I asked her if Room had shrunk. So I expected it to be smaller. How did we have a whole world in this space? What does that say about our capacity to be something other than the greedy, cruel fucks we are today? I had so many words back then, but I’ve got new ones: rapacious, pernicious, raiders, breakers, ebb tides, and devastation. I walked into the shed, into Room, and ran a hand along the wall. I had to duck to get in past the door jamb. Funny how we grow up towards things and one day realize the limit, realize we have to pass under it, so we can go back to the place where we started. That should fucking mean something.
It stank. Like mold and animal shit and years and years of being left alone, gathering dust and layers of memories and shit. You would think I had retained some sense of the tactile sensation of those walls. The alternating crisp and moist feel of the paper, of the things we put on the walls. I touched them when the first time I made her come back but I didn’t retain any memory of it. The second I made her come back she stayed in the backyard, surrounded by the weeds, the delicate pointed tops of them brushing against her in the wind like some god damned high art or something. Fuck all. She was still pretty even with the false teeth and the layers of dusted care etched into her face. Not that I care about that shit. She’s Ma, who gives fuck shit if she’s pretty? Even if I were that way it wouldn’t matter. She’s Ma. But she stood there, in the weeds, like a statue made of powdered flesh, her arms wrapped around herself in the most sublime fucking way, one hand on a shoulder, the other on her waist, so her arms didn’t cross. Because after you’ve been a hostage all your fucking life you never want to be captive, even though you are. You always fucking are.
I had to go back out and pull her to the shed. Like I said I practically had to drag her back to Room. Part of me fucking knew what I was doing: knew that I was torturing her in some real way. Making her experience this, not that I understand why. Did I want her to be close to me again? Was that fucking dream? That she and I would find ourselves enclosed again with only each other? Would I suddenly know shit again? Feel like I understood the fucking world for the first time again?
That reporter suggested the right thing would have been to leave me, to find a way to get me out of Room as a baby, to sacrifice for me, and I’ve always thought how fucked up that line of reasoning was, but at that moment, dragging Ma back to Room, I kind of understood it. We never really left the place. People never really leave the Room they’re in. They never fucking do. I went back out into the wind and weeds and pull her by the arm to Room.
She shivered as she went under the door jamb. She wasn’t tall. Neither was he. Why was am I so much taller? It must be some kind of human thing, the need to touch. She had to reach out and touch the walls too. But it was only with the tips of her fingers and her hand jerked back, like she had been shocked. I don’t think I will ever stop seeing that image. Like Room had actually fucking bitten her or something. And I brought her back to it. If you ever wonder why I did it, or when it started, other than when he fucking abducted Ma and locked her in Room – that is an obvious starting point, if there is such a fucking thing, if you ever wonder why I did it or when the idea started it was in the moment I watched her shrivel as she touched the walls of Room for the last time. The proverbial fucking butterfly flapping its fucking wings in fucking China that blows the hurricane across the fucking world.
But what in life ever prepared me to make a better decision than what I did? Huh? Fucking tell me that. I still don’t know the answer. All I know now is that she didn’t want to go and I made her. Because I needed to see what those walls meant now. And I couldn’t do it alone. I never could. I still can’t. What I needed was Ma.
What I got was fucking Room.

Chapter 3 – Not Hate
There are some things I don’t hate. It’s fucked up to say that, like it implies I’m full of hate, except for this one or this other thing, which somehow I don’t hate. Maybe at one point that was me. But it wasn’t always me and it isn’t now. I don’t hate Ma. I don’t hate Room. I don’t hate him. So rather than talk about the things I hate, I want to talk about the thing I don’t.
How could I hate Ma? She didn’t just give me life, she insured it for me. She suffered what is to most people both unspeakable and yet oddly mythic in order to make life possible for me. More, she persevered though everything which life, which bare existence, or god or what the fuck ever had put in her way, to give me life. Those people that argued she should have forced him in the beginning, when I was a baby, to let me go. Drop off like some kind of trash at a hospital, in the hopes of a better life. Fuck that.
Because do you know what he would have done? No. You don’t. But I do. Because he told me.
“I’d have smothered you with a pillow and buried you in the backyard. The only reason I let you live is because she calmed down after you came. She let me have her if I let her have you.”
That’s why I don’t hate him. Because though he’ll die in prison, long after Ma gave up the ghost, he gave me truth when he didn’t have to give me anything. When my very presence had cost him everything, both legitimate and illegitimate. I was his saving grace and his downfall, just like I was both for Ma. And people wonder why sometimes why I hate so fucking much. That’s why. Because of the things I don’t hate.